


The Prick of Pain

by ambaila



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:33:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22100353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambaila/pseuds/ambaila
Summary: Jaime watched as Brienne ran her fingers over the sharpest part of the blade, mesmerized as her eyes caught the light.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	The Prick of Pain

It was dark by the time they got back to his apartment. Dinner was a quiet and casual affair. A booth in the back of the restaurant provided them a small amount of privacy. The menu consisted of mostly burgers and chicken, salads and soups; he ordered a burger and didn't finish it, while she picked at a salad. He insisted on driving her back and she let him.

His apartment, if one could even call it that, was large enough for one person. A wide open space allowed room for his large bed, small tv set and a makeshift bookshelf. Yet, what had caught her attention was the sword that Jaime had above the television set. Jaime hadn't finished turning on the couple of lights and locking the door. She seemed to be rooted to the spot a few feet from sword.

Undoing the scarf around his neck, he let her be. He draped his jacket on the back of the large chair and threw is scarf down onto the seat. Stepping up behind her, he gave himself some distance. He could reach out if he wanted, his fingers could dance across her hip, but he wasn't going to cross that bridge yet.

"It has a twin," Jaime said.

"What?" Jaime smiled and couldn't help but laugh at the wide-eyed look Brienne gave him.

"The sword," Jaime said, nodding to the blade that had captured her attention. "There is another."

Jaime walked over to a tall case and slipped a lock from the door handles. A long with a second sword, was a rifle, and a hand gun on the top shelf. With anyone else, he would have warned her. He just figured, with how their professional relationship had progressed recently, a warning wasn't necessary.

He pulled the sword from it's clamps and pulled it out of the case. Much like it's counterpart on the wall, the blade was long. It's handle was intricate with it's braids and scales. The jewels that were encrusted emphasized the lions in the pommel. It was designed as a gift and a slight jab at him.

"Here," Jaime said. "Hold it."

Brienne blinked at him and he thought for a second he would have to repeat himself. She reached out, apprehensively and took the sword from him.

He watched as her arm dipped ever so slightly at the weight of it. She adjusted her grip and examined it. Mesmerized with her, he watched as Brienne let her fingers dance across the sharpest part of the blade, her eyes lighting up courtesy of the light bouncing off the blade.

She stepped back, away from him and turned away. She moved the blade starting at her elbow, her arm stiff. She moved with precise movements around his place, carefully avoiding the furniture. It was a movement that Jaime saw coming, that forced him to close in on her. He grabbed her wrist, the blade between them. If she moved forward, she'd slice him. If he hadn't stopped her, she was going to turn and crash, the blade would have cut her.

"The blade shouldn't hurt the user," Jaime said. "You were about to get hurt."

"I wasn't," Brienne argued.

Jaime stepped back, the blade in his hand, holding it in the same position as she had. He followed her steps and pointed out the leg of a table she would have caught her foot on and then pointed out the table she would have lost her balance on and Jaime let the sword fall just enough to show her what would have happened. He grabbed the pommel of the sword, holding it like a dagger.

Brienne's eyes went wide. "How did you see that?"

"I'm very well trained," Jaime laughed.

He turned the sword, offering it to her once again. She took it, but let the blade fall towards the ground.

"Where did you get it?"

"My father -," Jaime started and then stopped. "He came into possession of another sword, melted it down and built two. When my nephew turned 18 that was his."

"Did your nephew not want it?"

"My nephew died," Jaime said honestly.

 _It's why I'm yours._ Jaime thought to himself sincerely. There was no harshness in his own thoughts. It was simply the truth. After Joffrey died, his father sent him away. To Brienne. For a moment, Jaime thought of thanking his father.

Then the thoughts of who and what kind of man his father was and is seeped back into his memory and Jaime turned away from her. 

"I'm sorry," he heard her say. 

Nearly challenging her, Jaime spun around. Facing her. He was inches from her and this time he did reach out. He reached out to delicately touch the scarf that hung around her neck. 

He pulled it from her and held it in both hands, the ends wrapped around his knuckles. 

"The sword is not a toy," Jaime murmured. "It's delicate. It's heavy. It deserves care and admiration." 

Brienne nodded, understanding that this was not one of those times he was talking to her like a child. 

"It deserves proper attention," Jaime went on. "If mistreated it can cause a lot of damage." 

He loosened his grip on the scarf. He gently guided Brienne to hold the sword out in front of her. He let the scarf dangle between them before letting it fall onto the blade. A precise cut, the corner of her scarf fell to the ground. 

"It's yours," Jaime said. "The sword. It's yours. It will always be yours." 

Brienne looked to the blade and then back at him. She offered him the pommel with a sly smile. "Put it back." 

He took it from her, almost eagerly, and returned it to its place. When he turned, Brienne was gone. He thought for a moment she had been a dream. If it weren't for the piece of scarf on the floor, he would have thought it to be a creation of his imagination. It had been the sound of water running in his shower that had him grinning and following the sound. 

The sword's worst flaw, he would tell her later, much later, was that it could not withstand the worst prick of pain. 

It's own. 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


End file.
